


Terra incognita

by radishwine



Category: Tron: Evolution
Genre: Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishwine/pseuds/radishwine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a happier universe, Anon and Gibson repair Bostrum's power grid after the events of Evolution. Things go sideways.<br/>Contains fanart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terra incognita

**Author's Note:**

> Request from tronochrome to see Gibson and Anon have an easier time with things.  
> Warning for canon divergence: I’m pretending that none of the sad everyone-dies stuff happened. All the backstory that informed this came from the Tron wiki and a short explanation from tronochrome. If you could point out inaccuracies I’ll be happy to fix.

Gibson doesn’t bother to hide his grimace as he watches Anon pour energy into the cupped palm of his hand. The suit absorbs it sluggishly at first, then faster, sucking it up until there’s not a trace left of the glowing green liquid. Completely unnatural, is what that is.

Contrary to popular (User) belief, Programs don’t have to _ingest_ energy at all-- topical application works just as well. But there are some atavistic pleasures Gibson firmly believes in, and drinking his energy is one of them. So of course Anon would do it all wrong, like the awful efficient machine he is.

Gibson makes a show of slurping from his own container, though it’s mostly empty. A thought occurs to him.

“You do have a face under there, right? Like with a working mouth, eyes, all that? Or was Flynn too busy to write you one and that actually _is_ your face.” Gibson sticks his neck out, bringing his face within an inch of the opaque helmet and pretending to peer in. Right away his breath fogs up a patch on the sleek, glassy surface. He gets a gentle shove for that, and a hilariously bitchy roll of the shoulder as Anon scrubs at his face-- er-- visor.

Gibson laughs. “Okay. I guess that’s gonna stay a mystery for the ages.”

Though Anon is silent as ever, his stance is easy and relaxed. Content, even. Gibson hates to ruin it, but they’ve got serious work to do.

“Break’s over, buddy.” He nudges Anon with an elbow. “Between the two of us, if we can get power back online today, we’re gonna throw a party.”

It’s a long shot at best. Abraxas and the infected Programs did a tremendous amount of damage to Bostrum’s infrastructure. The energy grid, above all, is completely FUBAR. Large segments of the main power conduits lie in shambles, either ruptured by twisted shards of code or ripped straight out of the bedrock. It took him ten cycles to build this system-- painstakingly, circuit by circuit. And now it’s all fried to hell.

Beside him, Anon slows his stride and tilts his head slightly. Number 14 of 80 in his comprehensive catalogue of head-tilts, this particular one means he’s worried about something.

Gibson unclenches his hands with an effort. At least he has help this time around. Awesome help too, with the way Anon has been beasting every task Gibson can think up as de facto leader of the rebuilding effort. Bostrum is lucky to have him. _He’s_ lucky to have him.

“Here it is.” Gibson stops and points down at a rugged outcrop of banded, slate-gray rock.

It looks as nondescript as any other patch of rocks in the bleak Outlands, but to Gibson, the place fairly vibrates with power. Even blind he would be able to feel the vast amounts of raw energy hidden deep in the rock. It pulls at him-- the faint frisson of electricity licking at his skin, the low thrum in the ground, the ozone hanging heavily in the air. It’s why he chose this particular location to build the heart of the power grid all those cycles ago.

From there it’s only a quick, steep scramble down to the plateau where the generator should be. But when Gibson fails to spot the entrance to the underground chamber, he knows they’re well and truly fucked.

“Goddamnit.” He breathes. The entrance is buried under a heap of rocks, at least ten sizeable ones. Most of them are bigger than light runners, for fuck’s sake.

Anon hovers at his side, a sympathetic presence. There’s a slight sag to his shoulders that says _I feel you, man._

"We might have to call in backup for this one,” Gibson shrugs, a helpless gesture he hates. “It’ll be tough getting a demolition vehicle out here, but I don’t think we have a choice.”

Anon is silent, assessing. Then, he steps forward and pulls out his identity disc. _What?_

What Gibson doesn’t expect him to do is raise his disc high, in a familiar battle stance, and bring it down against the rock at a sharp angle. A long, thin layer of rock just _slides off_ , dropping to the ground with a brittle clack. One more tap and it derezzes into glowing dust and jagged bits.

“You’re a genius!” Gibson whoops, throwing his hands in the air. Of course. Working with the natural cleavage of the rock was how they’d been able to carve the colony out of the cliffside in the first place.

Anon manages to look indescribably smug. Something about his stance, maybe the jut of his hip, whatever-- he actually deserves it this time.

“Okay big guy, you handle this,” Gibson says. “I’m gonna see what I can do about redirecting the flow of energy until we can get the generator up again.”

As soon as Gibson climbs clear of the plateau, Anon starts hacking away. Bright blue and green sparks fall in a tiny shower with each ringing impact of disc against rock. Gibson winces.

“Careful down there,” he calls. “The foundation is probably unstable now. If we both die in a rockslide, I’m gonna kill you.”

A raised disc is Anon’s only response. Then he does something particularly violent-sounding, as though he’s trying to derez the solid rock instead of splitting it apart first.

Gibson rolls his eyes. For some reason, every single system monitor he’s ever known has been an incorrigible show-off. He turns his focus inward, starting on the difficult task of barricading the energy stream to stop the reservoir from bleeding out.

A split second later, he whips around at a tremendous _crack_ and sizzle from below-- from where Anon is standing, _oh shit_.

Anon lies in a motionless heap two levels below where he was standing before. Gibson can only guess that he was unlucky enough to hit a large vein of energy with his disc. If the explosion was powerful enough to throw him clear… Fuck the energy, he thinks fiercely, hurling himself down the slopes. It can run down the Outlands and the whole colony can starve, for all he cares.

“Come on, come on man,” Gibson chants as he turns Anon face-up, using his own knees to support the heavy body.

Anon doesn’t seem to be derezzing or god forbid, _perforated_ anywhere, but his circuits are flickering dim and white. Gibson runs frantic hands over his chest and up his neck, seeking a pulse, not finding one under the thick armor. He still can’t tell how badly Anon is injured. He doesn’t know the first fucking thing about Basics.

“So stupid,” he whispers-- to himself or Anon, does it matter? “Should’ve thought.”

He jumps when one of his fingers hits something that gives with a soft click. Suddenly there’s a flutter of retracting black panels, and a face where Anon’s helmet should be.

In spite of his mounting hysteria, Gibson spares a thought that-- what-- on what Grid does your weird-as-fuck faceless best friend turn out to be a really hot guy underneath it all?

He places shaking hands on Anon’s neck, just under the shelf of his jaw.

Gibson’s heart leaps painfully when Anon jerks and takes a deep, shuddering breath, blinking into awareness, circuits cycling back into blue and holding. Anon’s eyes, though, aren’t blue after all-- not like they are in Gibson’s secret imaginings. Instead their color is a warm gray, dark as the surrounding rock but infinitely more vibrant. More precious.

Ever so slowly, Anon’s bleary gaze sharpens as he comes back to himself. Gibson realizes with glee that he’s _embarrassed_. If he thinks Anon was an expressive Program before, it’s nothing compared with this.

“So this is what you’ve been hiding under there. Not bad.” Gibson says softly, not able to keep his voice from wavering. He can’t seem to stop touching Anon’s face, either, but they can probably both forgive him given the circumstances.

Anon smiles. There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes-- a perfectly even number of little creases on each side. He raises a hand and brings it toward his face gingerly, as though the movement pains him. This is it, Gibson figures. He frantically tries to commit every detail to memory before Anon rerezzes his helmet.

Anon, though, just covers Gibson’s hand with his own, pressing lightly where it’s cradling his cheek. He settles in, turning into Gibson’s palm with a soft sigh. Gibson suddenly can’t speak past the fullness in his chest.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers, leaning back against the rock and letting his eyes fall shut.

 

 


End file.
